By sunset, the house had emptied. Marcello was freshly shaved, wearing the cologne reserved for boardroom meetings and funerals, standing tall in his navy suit as he straightened Enzo’s and Nico’s collars like a proud patriarch. Antonio was dressed in his finest suit, looking the part of an heir.
“Remember,” Marcello said to them, “Vivienne is doing this because she loves us. She’s family.”
“We know, Grandpa. That’s why we love Vivienne more than Grandma Bianca,” the boys chorused.
Then… nothing. No goodbye, no ‘we’ll bring you something.’ Just the front door clicking shut, echoing like a coffin lid.
The silence afterward was brutal. A hollow that screamed louder than any insult ever could.
I stood in the hallway, slippers on, clutching a basket of unfolded laundry. My stomach growled. I hadn’t cooked for anyone. Why would I?
Out of spite, I turned on the TV. And there they were.